‘Why?’ asked Alyce.
‘He’s an advisor to Queen Elizabeth,’ said Solomon.
‘Is she the same as Queen Bess?’
Solomon and Mrs Thomson looked at each other. She’d obviously said something stupid.
‘Bess. Elizabeth. She’s the Queen,’ said Solomon. ‘And John Dee is part of her inner circle. I see him at Court sometimes. He’s a bit of an odd one.’
Alyce shook her head. ‘I don’t think that’s him. This John Dee’s a hangman.’
‘Why in God’s name would you be wanting to go see a hangman?’
‘My mother told me to.’
Alyce could feel herself tensing up. Now she was saying it out loud, it really didn’t seem to make sense. Her memories were so confused now, she wondered whether she’d made the whole thing up.
‘So,’ said Mrs Thomson, confusion plain on her face. ‘When you find the hangman John Dee, then what?’
‘I have to give him a letter.’
‘What letter?’
‘The one my mother gave me.’
‘Well . . . let’s have a look at it, then!’
‘That’s the problem,’ sighed Alyce. ‘I don’t have it any more. The governors took it from me when I was at Bedlam. It was in the dress I was wearing when I arrived.’
‘Ah. That isn’t good news.’
‘They might still have it, though. The governor said he hadn’t sent it to the almshouse yet.’
‘Strange that they didn’t return it to you when they let you out,’ piped up Solomon.
‘Let me out?’ Alyce swallowed. ‘Oh. Yes, let me out.’
Solomon frowned.
‘Ay, it is strange,’ said Mrs Thomson. ‘Well, p’raps you and I can go back there and see if they’ll hand over the dress, and we’ll cross our fingers the letter’s still there. That would be best, don’t you think?’
‘No,’ said Alyce, much louder and firmer than she was expecting to. If she went back, it would have to be in secret. After her escape, what would happen when the governors saw her again? Master Makepiece had seemed nice enough, but was timid, and had crumpled unimpressively when the hooded man and the woman had come to snatch her away. Master Kemp’s allegiances were obvious. What if her pursuers were still there? Or had left spies to see if she returned?
‘I mean,’ she said, making an effort to speak softly, ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
Solomon’s thick eyebrows were far too agitated to suggest that he was completely convinced by Alyce and her story.
‘Really, no trouble at all, my pet . . .’ continued Mrs Thomson.
‘I’d like a little more time to rest, anyway.’
‘Yes, course you do. No need to think about it right now. In the meantime, though, you can stay here and help me with the inn. Then Solomon knows where to find you too,’ she said, her tiny black eyes almost disappearing into the wrinkles of her grin.
Alyce smiled back, but felt uneasy. Trapped, even. All she said was: ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m employing you too, mind,’ she said, wagging a fat finger. ‘How’s about you go upstairs and get ready, and I’ll show you what you can do in the kitchen. Go on, get yourself dressed.’
‘I’ll come,’ said Solomon.
Alyce couldn’t help giving a spluttering laugh.
‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ she said, ‘but usually I manage to get dressed all by myself.’
‘No, not that, I didn’t mean . . . You know what I mean.’ The slightest hint of warmth could be seen creeping across his pale cheeks. ‘I meant to Bedlam. I’ll come with you to Bedlam. It’s on Bishopsgate Street Without, same road as the Theatre and the Curtain. I’m up there a lot with the company. If you want me to, that is. I just thought . . . Well, it’s up to you, isn’t it.’ He trailed off, embarrassed by his own embarrassment, tugging at his ruff as though he had found something important stuck in its folds.
‘Thank you,’ said Alyce. ‘Like I said, I think I’ll wait until I feel a little stronger. At least until my hair has grown back a bit.’ She scratched her head and then coughed. ‘I’m going to go now.’
She scurried from the storeroom to the back stairs, and began hiking up them two at time, her head swimming. That was the most she had spoken to anyone in months. That was the most she had ever spoken to anyone who wasn’t her mother. The urge to be alone drove her quickly to the top floor, away from the warm vapours of soups and stews and baking pies.
As kind and as tolerant as Mrs Thomson seemed, something didn’t feel right. No such thing as witches, she’d said. Yes there are, thought Alyce. And they can do a lot more than just sprinkle a few herbs around. Mrs Thomson was half right: Alyce wasn’t in conversation with Lucifer. God and the Devil were, as her mother had put it, ‘just a distraction from the real work’. A sideshow. But she wondered how Mrs Thomson would have reacted if Alyce had told her the full story. The true story. Fires in the woods. Prayers to the moon. Long, dark nights speaking with the dead.
No, her place wasn’t here.
Her hand came to rest on the cold handle of the bedroom door as her name floated up the stairs.
‘Alyce?’
She turned and saw Solomon loitering on the stairs under a holly bough. He started up after her, pricking the top of his head on the dry, sharp leaves, and cursing under his breath. She wondered how he bore himself on stage, if this was how clumsy he was in real life – but then remembered how deftly he had dealt with the apple seller in the street. She couldn’t quite make sense of him.
‘Really, Master . . .’ She didn’t know his surname. ‘Master Solomon. I have dressed myself many, many times. I know what goes where.’
‘I think Mrs Thomson has mocked me enough today, don’t you join in as well. I have something of yours.’
Alyce paused on the threshold, raised an eyebrow, and came halfway down to the landing below.
He chewed his lip, and opened up the satchel that was slung over his shoulder. Inside, Alyce could see a few tatty pieces of parchment, and, poking out from between them, the looped, twisted head of her mommet. He fished it out, and held it in front of him in both hands, tenderly, as though it were a real child.
Alyce took it without saying anything. There was something about Solomon seeing and touching the mommet that made her anxious. Unpleasant, uncomfortable truths could be altered, hidden in words. But here was the thing itself: her and her mother’s craft, in a curled, distorted, grotesque little figure. It looked all the more otherworldly now, in the harsh, accusatory light of the day.
‘I used to have one of those,’ said Solomon, as she hid it self-consciously behind her back. The sweat from her palms was starting to make the mommet go limp.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. My mother showed me how to make them too. Before she left. It’s a good luck charm, isn’t it?’
Alyce ignored his question. ‘Why did you take it?’
‘I don’t know. Reminded me of her, I suppose. I haven’t seen one in so long . . . I wanted to see if I could remember how to make them. I tried to copy that one, but it ended up looking more like a worm. A worm with a human head. Horrifying, really.’
‘If your parents taught you anything, you should know that its bad luck to steal someone else’s mommet.’
‘My mother. Not my parents. My father would have taught me that I was going straight to Hell for making false idols. Frequently did, in fact. Anyway, like I said, it was with the best intentions. They were going to wash your smock, I took it before Martha could get her hands on it. Or Mrs Thomson. She’s got a good heart, and I’m forever in her debt, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘She doesn’t really know what she’s talking about.’
‘And you do?’ she said.
He frowned and the rings around his eyes turned an even deeper shade of purple. But he didn’t reply.
Alyce brought the mommet out again from behind her back.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For this. For every
thing.’
‘It was my pleasure.’ His face lit up a little. ‘And I meant what I said about Bedlam. I know the area well.’
Alyce studied him. Dressed head to toe in ink-coloured velvet, head concealed under a heap of black hair, a slender shadow of a boy – he could make the perfect thief. And if they were caught, she thought, looking at his pale, tired face and slightly bulging eyes, he could happily pass for a lunatic.
‘Whenever you’re ready, of course,’ he said, filling the silence she had left. ‘If you need to rest—’
‘I don’t need to rest,’ said Alyce, shaking her head.
‘But you said—’
‘I’ve had nothing but rest and sleep and fattening food for the last four days. The governors won’t hold on to my dress for ever.’ She toyed with the strange straw figure between her fingers. It felt good to have it back, even if it was still unfinished. She felt a little more composed. And she was happier talking to Solomon on his own than when he was with Mrs Thomson.
Yes, she could say it. ‘You can come with me to Bedlam, Solomon. But we are going there tonight.’
HOPKINS
John Hopkins stood in Bedlam’s gatehouse, staring at the governor’s slender fingers interlaced on his belly and thinking about how easy it would be to break them. He’d probably let Caxton have the pleasure.
‘This is an amusing fiction, Master Makepiece, and I recognize that in your line of work you must take any opportunity to entertain yourself. But come. A little cooperation.’
‘I am cooperating, sir. They have already taken her. A man and a woman. They were your people. Witchfinders.’
‘A woman? There are no women in our line of work, for reasons I am sure you can understand.’
‘There is no mistake. Unless you employ eunuchs? I know what a woman’s voice sounds like.’
‘Then they were imposters.’
‘If you say so.’
‘But who would wish to impersonate a witchfinder, Master Makepiece? We do the Lord’s work. Who would be so deceitful?’
‘I wouldn’t care to say.’
Hopkins sat back and regarded the little man across the table, narrowing his eyes.
‘Two of them?’
The governor nodded.
‘In black cloaks, you say?’
‘Their faces were covered. Hooded. Not like your friend here, though.’
Hopkins turned to look at Caxton, looming masked and motionless in the corner of the hospital gatehouse. His appearance had made interrogation an almost boringly easy affair in every village they had stopped at. Most assumed that the beaked creature who trailed in Hopkins’ shadow was some spectre, some demon, conjured by black arts to wreak vengeance on their wrongdoing. And, really, that wasn’t so far from the truth. But they were in London now, not some rural backwater ruled by superstition. The governor seemed to be made of sterner, more rational stuff.
‘Why does he wear this costume?’ asked Master Makepiece. ‘Some sort of mummer’s trick? Are you not getting as many confessions as you would like?’
‘Master Caxton was grievously injured,’ said Hopkins, turning back to him and affecting a face of deep concern. ‘The mask contains a poultice, a mixture of herbs to aid in his recovery.’
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said the governor, not sounding sorry at all. There was something almost admirable about his insolence. ‘I shall pray for him.’
Hopkins laughed. ‘Of course you will. Your prayers are gratefully received.’
‘Then are we finished?’ said Master Makepiece, pushing back his chair over the flagstones and getting to his feet. ‘I’m sorry I cannot be more helpful. If you’ll excuse me, my charges will be getting restless.’
Hopkins remained where he was, reclining a little, one knee crossed over the other. ‘I’m afraid we are not finished. And I’m afraid you’ll simply have to be more helpful. You see, governor, it’s not me who wants the girl. It is the Queen.’
‘The Queen? What would Elizabeth want with her? What would Elizabeth want with you, for that matter—’
‘Who said anything about Elizabeth?’
Hopkins smiled, watching the governor’s face contort with confusion, and then realization. Queen Mary would probably not appreciate him revealing their connection, but these small triumphs were one of the few things that still gave him pleasure. And besides, Caxton would make sure the governor stayed silent.
‘You’re working for her, aren’t you?’ said Master Makepiece. ‘Traitors.’
‘That is very much a question of perspective. I’m sure Her Majesty will reward you handsomely in return for your help reclaiming what is rightfully hers.’
‘Rightfully?’ the governor spat. ‘What does the Queen of Scots want with that poor girl?’
‘I don’t think you understand how an interrogation works,’ said Hopkins, laughing. ‘You are the one who needs to give us information.’
‘But I’m telling you, I don’t know anything else.’
‘I think you’d be surprised what you can find, with a bit of digging. Caxton?’
There was the creak of leather from behind him.
‘Help Master Makepiece into his seat.’
Even Hopkins shivered a little as the tall crow-like figure stalked past him and took the governor’s hand in his own.
The light was already failing when Alyce and Solomon set out for Bedlam, and the sky was the colour of Martha’s dirty washing water. The streets of the city were still busy, but most had finished their day’s work, and everyone gave off a collective glow of exhaustion as they made their way to their homes, or their taverns, or other, darker corners of London.
Alyce went forth in another of Mrs Thomson’s old dresses, blowing and snapping around her skinny frame like a galleon’s sails, a plain cloak on her shoulders and one of the maid’s bonnets pulled over her ears to hide her shaven head. The wind seemed to slip between her ribs and around her heart, gnawing at her resolve. The plan had seemed so much easier in the warmth of the inn.
What if the hospital gate was closed? What if it was open, but she couldn’t find the letter? What if she got herself caught before she could even look for it? The prospect of returning to her tiny, filthy cell was too dreadful to contemplate. The noise, the stench, the delightful company of Master Kemp – memories that had receded into vagueness suddenly took on their old, hard, painful shapes. She focused on simply on putting one foot in front of the other.
Alyce had spent most of the afternoon in the kitchens, helping Mrs Thomson prepare her pies and soups. She had taken special care, though, to burn the pastry just a little too much, and to drop one too many spoons into the bottom of the saucepan, until the innkeeper was forced to think of other, more useful errands she might run. Perhaps, suggested Alyce innocently, she should go out and buy some more flour, after she had wasted so much on her failed experiments in baking (she apologized again).
Mrs Thomson had not needed much convincing, but had insisted that Solomon accompany her. Alyce hadn’t argued with that.
And now here they were, on their way out of the city again, walking with quick and deliberate strides. It was a race against the sunset, when the city gates would close, but Alyce did not want to draw attention and so restrained herself from running.
Solomon tried to orientate her as best he could, pointing out particularly important buildings, and naming the streets when he knew them. He led her along Little East Cheap, before turning right on to Grace Church Street. Alyce shivered a little more violently as they passed the spot where the codling seller had beaten her. Thankfully he’d shut up shop for the day.
‘Why did you save me?’ she asked suddenly, when they were past it.
Solomon’s eyes went round with surprise, making them look even more amphibious. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Why would you? No one else in the whole city wanted to help.’
‘I don’t know. Just got a feeling about you. I thought we had something in common.’ He looked away.
‘I don’t know,’ he said again.
‘Something in common?’ Alyce snorted, but knew she was protesting too much. She understood exactly what he meant. ‘The only thing we have in common is that we both need to eat more.’
‘I saw your mommet.’ He formed a few different words with his lips before he spoke again. ‘You reminded me of someone.’
‘Who? Your mother?’
He shrugged.
‘Why?’
‘She was strange, like you.’
‘Strange how?’
‘I’m not going to say out loud.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we’re in earshot of everyone.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘God’s bodkins, Alyce!’ Solomon stopped at another crossroads. A gentleman glared at him for his blasphemy. ‘Can we call a halt on the inquisition? I don’t recall trying to fill in all the gaps in your story.’ He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
She stiffened, suddenly aware of how ignorant she was, how inexperienced when it came to talking to city folk. Talking to anyone, for that matter. She had no idea when she was overstepping the mark. Or where the mark was. Or what the mark even looked like. When she was at home, her mother had always encouraged her to ask questions. But she wasn’t at home any more. And her mother was dead.
They crossed over the brown mire of the intersection and continued walking in silence. Alyce felt the muddy water soaking up the hem of her borrowed dress.
‘Forgive me. I won’t ask anything else,’ she said eventually.
‘You can ask questions. I just might not answer them.’ Solomon kept striding ahead, and Alyce occasionally had to perform a little skip to keep pace with him. ‘Honestly, there is nothing much to say about my mother. Nothing that you don’t know about from your own experiences. She had some interests that were a little . . . unusual. Folk didn’t like it – and when I say folk, I mean my father. He was the one who started whispering. Then one night she disappeared from the house and I never saw her again. The end. You can bet she ended up like your mother, but it’s not as if I’m going to go looking for her. Or what’s left of her.’
Witchborn Page 5
